


I Try to Break My Bones to Fit Inside the Spaces

by Yevie



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dancing, Make-up, Nonbinary Ingrid, Other, Pre-Relationship, though Ingrid hasn't figured that out yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yevie/pseuds/Yevie
Summary: The worst thing about make-up, Ingrid decided, was the way it clung to her skin. She'd washed her face twice now, finally managing to get the smudge of red off her lips. But the dark stains around her eyes only grew wider and the oily substance that had been used to cover the supposed imperfections of her complexion refused to give way. Her nose leaked, adding snot to the disaster she'd made of herself. And she must have gotten make-up in her eyes, because they stung with tears. Why had she even agreed to this nonsense?Sylvain helps Ingrid remove her make-up.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 50





	I Try to Break My Bones to Fit Inside the Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this fic for ages, or something like it.
> 
> Title from: Rest by Verite

The worst thing about make-up, Ingrid decided, was the way it clung to her skin. She'd washed her face twice now, finally managing to get the smudge of red off her lips. But the dark stains around her eyes only grew wider and the oily substance that had been used to cover the supposed imperfections of her complexion refused to give way. Her nose leaked, adding snot to the disaster she'd made of herself. And she must have gotten make-up in her eyes, because they stung with tears. Why had she even agreed to this nonsense?

Bracing her hands at the edge of the washbasin, Ingrid inhaled. She didn't flinch at her reflection in the same way she'd had when she'd run here from the ball. Though, perhaps that flinch had been from sheer embarrassment.

She remembered staring up at her dance partner - Gabriel or something, he'd had stable duty with her once - and how he began to blur, his features dissolving into an empty mask. The hand delicately holding hers had felt cold and clammy, the hand on her waist like something vile. All night, it had been like she was separated from herself, watching to the left of reality as a simulacrum of her smiled and spoke words she couldn't quite recall now. Then, Gabriel said something of engagement and she'd found herself back in her body, where she was all too real and the world around her wasn't.

Breaking from Gabriel's hold, she'd made some excuse. "Sorry, bathroom," or maybe what had come out of her mouth had been a garble. She'd all but run out of the ballroom, heart in her throat, ears feeling full of water. How she ended up back in her dorm, she couldn't recall now. All she could remember was catching her reflection and recoiling.

Another inhale and Ingrid closed her eyes. Probably, she should get Annette to help her fix this mess. Annette was the one who'd kicked off this little experiment and Ingrid wished she could remember what Annette had said about removing make-up. But it'd been too distracting watching 'Ingrid' disappear, replaced by a girl with rosy cheeks and big, innocent eyes.

Grabbing the now horribly stained towel, Ingrid was about to again start wiping away what she could when there was a knock on her door. In the most baffling set of instincts, she threw the towel at the door, seized her lance, and nearly knocked the washbasin aside as she spun around to face an opponent who was not there.

"Ingrid?" asked a voice she would know anywhere. "You know, you promised me at least one dance tonight."

"Sylvain," she said, more relief bleeding into her voice than she could justify. "I assumed your card would grow full enough to spare me from the obligation." Hands shaking, she set down the lance. It toppled over.

"I'd always make time for you," Sylvain said in that joking voice he always used when pretending to flirt with her. They both knew how ridiculous the notion of them as a pair was, and Ingrid was glad that Sylvain had at least one person he wouldn't actually flirt with.

"You use that line at least once a day."

He laughed. "The difference is, when it's you, I mean it." There was a pause, before Sylvain added, "Also, are you going to let me in? As beautiful as this door is, I'd rather be looking at your lovely face."

Ingrid froze. No. No, Sylvain could not see her like this. No one could see her like this. "Go back to the ball, Sylvain. I don't want to deal with all the girls you've scorned tomorrow."

"Ingrid," there was a shift in Sylvain's voice, "Are you sure you don't want to dance? We could dance here, just the two of us."

She picked the towel off the floor and returned to scrubbing at her face. "I'm in no mood for dancing."

"That's too bad, really. I missed how you used to step on my feet. Couldn't stop thinking about you every time I put on my shoes."

"Sylvain," warned Ingrid.

"I think you broke my toes once. No, you definitely broke my toes once. It was great though, you looked so happy being twirled around that I only noticed after I took off my shoes. My toes looked like little red sausages."

She remembered that - their dance lessons because she'd been afraid of looking silly the first time she danced with Glenn. It felt stiff and awkward as she tried to move through the intricate steps, but then Sylvain had gotten a mischievous glint in his eye. He'd lifted her arm and begun to spin her.

"I thought you knew how to take a hint," Ingrid said.

"I'm very good at taking hints." There was another knock on her door. "Come on Ingrid, let me in."

If she refused again, he'd probably leave. She'd be alone and could think about how to get her face clean. She'd be alone and could think about exactly what had made her behave so irrationally tonight. She'd be alone and could think. Swallowing, Ingrid crossed the room and opened the door.

To his credit, Sylvain did no more than blink when he saw her. The quirk of a smile he wore did not even twitch. Maybe he'd expected something worse.

Ingrid folded her arms, raised her brows and waited.

"I don't really want to try squeezing past you."

With a huff, she stepped aside. "Is that all you have to say?"

He walked in, pausing only to raise an eyebrow at the toppled lance. Then, like the hundreds, thousands, millions of times he'd been in here, Sylvain plopped himself down on her bed and gazed up at her. "You're going to need oil to get that off."

Ah. Oil. Yeah, that had been what Annette had said. Ingrid remembered now. Oil. All she had needed had been oil. There was a lump in her throat. The make-up in her eyes stung more. Snot was leaking again. She rubbed her face into the sleeve of her uniform, wiping away the snot and the welling of emotion trying to flow out. "I don't have any."

"Lucky for you, I keep a vial on hand." Reaching into his pocket, Sylvain pulled a small container half-full of oil. "Sit down and pass me that towel."

If Ingrid had any sense left, she might have protested. But, as it was, the night had drained her of all her sense along with all her energy. She dropped onto the bed and wordlessly held out the towel.

Sylvain took it. He turned it over until he found an unstained portion, then tipped the vial so that a slow trickle of oil poured onto the cloth. "I still can't believe the Professor chose Felix as our representative," Sylvain said, hooking a finger under Ingrid's chin and tugging her to him. "Actually, I can sort of believe it. The part I really can't believe is that he won." Carefully, he began to wipe the cloth down her cheeks. It was like when they'd been children - she or Felix or Dimitri would take a tumble and Sylvain would wipe up the tears and dirt and blood.

"My money'd been on Marianne," Sylvain continued, "I know Dorothea was the obvious choice, but I like betting on the dark horse. Now, I owe Dimitri dinner."

"Dimitri bet?" Ingrid asked. It seemed like only yesterday it had been Dimitri, not Ingrid, who'd tried to keep them all out of trouble - the perfect king-to-be commanding his loyal knights. But Felix was not the only one who noticed the changes in his majesty - Ingrid just had a sense of propriety.

"And on Felix, if you'd believe it," Sylvain said as he stood to go over to the washbasin. He dunked the towel in, then wrung it out.

"Felix is the one with the problem, not Dimitri."

Sylvain groaned, long and exaggerated. "I wasn't talking about that. I just meant that it was Dimitri's toes that Felix used to step on."

"We all stepped on each other's toes," Ingrid pointed out.

"Not me! I didn't step on any of your toes," he beamed with false pride and then came back to sit next to Ingrid. "The professor should have picked me, it would have impressed all the girls."

Ingrid wrinkled her nose, "I believe that is exactly what the professor wanted to avoid."

Laughing, Sylvain once more tugged Ingrid's chin to him and this time wiped the slick of oil off her face. Then from his pocket he pulled a handkerchief - small, blue and embroidered, as delicate looking as his touch was when he used it to wipe the last traces of mess from her face. There were black stains on it now, but Sylvain didn't seem to mind when he pocketed it. "There you are, all clean. Want to take a look?"

_Yes,_ Ingrid was about to say, but as she tilted her chin up to look towards her mirror, a spike of dread stabbed through her. It was ridiculous. Her own face. A knight's fears should only serve to protect them and their lord, and yet here she was, fearing her own face. "Yes," Ingrid said and stood.

The reflection was the same one she normally saw - the same green eyes and long, straw-like hair and unfashionably thin lips. It was her. It still looked foreign, somehow more so after the image of her face distorted had seared itself in her mind. "Thank you," she said, turning from the mirror.

"Anytime," Sylvain grinned. He did not even seem tempted to ask about Ingrid's distress, and she could not say if she was grateful.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to get back to the ball now."

Arching an eyebrow, Sylvain said, "Trying to get rid of me, already? You still owe me that dance, Ingrid."

"I'll step on your toes."

"Then you lead and I'll follow. It'll make it a lot easier to avoid toe-stepping."

She folded her arms, skeptical, but Sylvain held out his hands, palms down, in the way a lady might when accepting a dance. Lowering his gaze, he batted his lashes. In any other circumstances, Ingrid might have told Sylvain to quit being a fool or even laughed. Now, her heart thumped in an unfamiliar rhythm. Her cheeks heated, but she took his hands anyhow.

It turned out she was as horrible a lead as she was a follow, though perhaps that was partially because she was so used to doing the steps in the reverse order that the new ones felt strange. And yet, she didn't mind the strangeness. Unlike Gabriel's hands, Sylvain's were warm and steady. The conversation drifted between silly jokes and what Sylvain's toes would look like come morning.

"It's your own fault," Ingrid said and Sylvain just laughed.

Moonlight shone through the window. From the right angle, the stars became visible. While the room was small and cramped, it felt more open than the ballroom had the entire night. It was like Ingrid was a child again, free from responsibility and family burden. It wouldn't last. She knew that. But looking up into Sylvain's warm eyes and watching him smile as he let her pick the way of things made her wish it could.

They danced until the midnight chime rang out, and then slowly separated, trailing fingers lingering until the distance grew too great. Ingrid sighed, unsure of what to say now, not quite wanting to say good-bye. The silence drifted, not uncomfortable in and of itself, just pressing, signalling. Soon enough Seteth would be herding everyone back to their dorms, making sure that no one had guests staying tonight. If he found Sylvain in Ingrid's room, she knew what he'd assume. But, still Ingrid could not find the good-bye in her.

"Thanks for the dance, Sir Ingrid," Sylvain said, breaking through the silence.

"I'm no knight yet." And she might never be one, if her father had his way.

"Yeah, I know," Sylvain said. "Still, thanks for the dance." Leaning over, he gave her cheek a quick kiss. "Now, I should be off before Seteth sees me. I've already been dragged to his office twice this month." He was out the door before Ingrid had the chance to respond.

Sitting down on her bed, Ingrid shook her head. "Thank you, you irresponsible bastard," she said to the empty room. Tomorrow, she'd return Annette's make-up kit and figure out exactly what Sylvain had done to offend Seteth twice this month. Tonight, she only had energy left to sleep.


End file.
